


terribly difficult to think about such dirty matters

by suitablyskippy



Category: Gintama
Genre: A Voyage of Yoshiwara Discovery, Bad Advice and Good Intentions, F/F, Ill-Advised Mentorship, Impromptu Mentorship, Other, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5807053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitablyskippy/pseuds/suitablyskippy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All attempts to flee with dignity are going nowhere. All attempts to flee without dignity are going nowhere, too; and so the struggle ceases, and Kyuubei instead stands straight and tall – straight and taller – <i>slightly</i> taller. “I come alone but for my honour. And my sword. And my bushido, with which I am never alone. Such is the way of the samurai.”</p><p>Sarutobi disregards this noble solemnity, and nudges up her glasses. A certain slyness has crept into her voice. “Your gorilla’s not with you, then?”</p><p>(On a matter of some delicacy, Kyuubei seeks the advice of trusted friends. There's no doubt about it: this is definitely a foolproof plan.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

In place of a doorway, a yellow silk curtain hangs from a crooked lintel. Only Kyuubei follows Tsukuyo inside; the curtain swings closed at their backs and an uncanny hush descends. The noise of Tae and Sarutobi’s frank and forthright disagreement in the street outside fades away, until only the sounds in Sarutobi’s very highest registers can be heard – and even then only vaguely, distantly, as though the shrieking could be another world away entirely. 

Somewhere deep within the shop – lost in the nearly opaque fog of incense smoke, amidst the narrow aisles of perilously stacked shelving – someone, somewhere, is whistling the classic second opening theme of _Ultra Supernova Mecha-Strike!! 100% Blast Force_. 

The smoke of Tsukuyo’s pipe rises to the incense smog clouded below the ceiling. “You in here?” she asks the smog. 

Abruptly the whistling stops, and Seita bounds up from behind the front counter as vigorously as though propelled. “Tsukki-nee! Ah, and Kyuubei-san – nice to see ya! Gimme a minute, I just gotta get this display finished and let Kuwa-san know I’m off, and then I’m all yours.”

“So long as you ain’t gonna make us late for dinner,” says Tsukuyo sternly – then adds, a little apologetic, “You mind waiting a minute, Kyuubei?”

Kyuubei does not, and would say so – but Seita has returned to his work, bright-eyed and restless as a squirrel in the city park in autumn, elbows propped on the glass countertop and industriously polishing – _something_ —

The question blurts out almost of its own accord. 

“You what?” Seita says politely. 

Kyuubei takes a deep breath and tries again, this time at a volume somewhat above a husky whisper: “What... is _that_ , Seita-kun?”

“What’s...? Oh,” says Seita, following the mutely awed path of Kyuubei’s gaze, “ _oh_ – well, that’s our luxe brand! Pretty pricey, but you really get what you pay for; I got the mid-sized model cheap on my staff discount a while back, and I gotta tell you, it makes a _great_ paperweight. Keeps all my homework together,” he says importantly, “even the handwriting practice, and I get pages of that stuff. _Way_ too many pages. My handwriting’s better than Tsukki-nee’s, anyway, and she never even had to _go_ to school, so I don’t see why I gotta do—” 

Tsukuyo rests her back and the sole of one boot flat against the wall. She says nothing, and only gazes thoughtfully up at the smoky ceiling, but a message nevertheless appears to be communicated. 

“—but I’m still gonna do it all right away before dinner,” Seita says hurriedly, and returns to his task with twice the haste of before, briskly twisting a lozenge-shaped length of solid glass through his soft polishing cloth. Translucent, striated with several tasteful, winding ribbons of colour, unfurling through the body of the thing like patterns in a child’s marbles—“and _this_ ,” Seita begins again, setting it aside to gleam on a velvet-lined display case beside several of its polished gleaming fellows, “is a bestseller, _very_ popular, I reckon I’ve sold one to just about every lady in Yoshiwara by now – _not_ Tsukki-nee,” he amends, catching Kyuubei’s gaze shifting slowly to the side, “but still, that’s not to say if the right occasion arose she’d never—”

A line of smoke curls towards the incense-clouded ceiling. “Enough of that, Seita,” Tsukuyo says, and though she says it mildly, Seita trips over his tongue in panic and hurtles into a frenzy of high-speed polishing. 

Kyuubei studies the display case closely a moment more, then turns away. All around the small and incense-smelling shop are shelves of – _devices_ , each more intriguing than the next and each as worthy of intently focused consideration. A true salesman, Seita: it takes him not a moment to track the scrutiny of Kyuubei’s gaze, and not a moment more to chase it up with his energetic salesman’s spiel. 

“—and this one ain’t a standalone, so to speak, there’s an attachment rig as we sell separately but we got a discount rate for the pair together—” and Kyuubei’s nodding, intently, a world full of experiences yet to be revealed right here in this shop – its premises so cramped in size, yet so unimaginably vast in potential, “—and _here_ we got your basic beginners’ kit for the gentleman as fancies expanding his horizons along with his—”

“Kyuu-chan?” The yellow silk curtain across the doorway twitches – and already Seita is explaining to no one: Kyuubei moves at once, in a flash as fast as the arc of a sword, at the very instant Tae speaks. “Tsukuyo-san? Are you still in there? There’s a stalker out here who won’t stop harassing me, and aren’t you supposed to keep this district safe? Won’t you get rid of her for me? – oh, Kyuu-chan, there you are!”

Kyuubei nods, in solemn agreement. The shop’s silk curtain twitches closed behind them both, not quite of its own accord, and not quite all the way. “Have you been well, Tae-chan?”

A little way down the street, Sarutobi is berating a lamppost at deafening volume; in Tae’s hand is carelessly crumpled the wreckage of a pair of spectacles. “Since I last saw you two minutes ago, Kyuu-chan?” 

“Absolutely, Tae-chan.” 

“Then I’ve been very well, thank you,” Tae says politely, and tucks the remains of Sarutobi’s spectacles inside her sleeve. “I’m sure Edo will thank me,” she explains. 

“I’m sure of it too, Tae-chan,” says Kyuubei, sombre as the grave. 

The matter of their height difference is proving problematic. It is difficult to block Tae’s view of the shop’s interior as thoroughly as Kyuubei would like, and yet the issue remains that such matters are not the province of casual midday conversation, or indeed of any conversation, and furthermore would send Kyuubei spiralling into a pit of such unspeakable mortification _were_ they ever to become the province of conversation that only seppuku, or possibly a one-way ticket to the end of the intergalactic line, or perhaps taking up an assumed identity aboard an Amanto trade ship and living out the rest of a disgraced natural lifespan in disguise amidst the stars could ever salvage the aftermath: and so it is imperative that Tae be persuaded from the threshold. 

But to infringe in any way on Tae’s right to do as she pleases and go where she will – indefensible! A samurai who would seek to impose their own will on a woman is no samurai at all; and to create an excuse to persuade her from the threshold would be to lie, and a samurai who would lie to a woman is _also_ no samurai at all—

Tae clears her throat. In her eyes is a look of tender concern. “Ah – is everything okay, Kyuu-chan? You seem a little... unbalanced.”

“That’s because I’m standing on tiptoes, Tae-chan,” says Kyuubei, who values plain honesty above all things. 

Tae considers this. Then she nods, in sympathetic understanding, and says: “You’ll stay after dinner tonight, won’t you?” – wholly assured and not at all a question, and offers Kyuubei her hand – and in one simple, glorious move the impasse is passed, the obstruction deconstructed, for Kyuubei should have known better: nothing stands in the way of Tae for long. 

 

+++

 

Some few weeks ago, Tae had disengaged from their shared and thoroughly preoccupying activity and moved very slightly back, to gaze into Kyuubei’s face with a look of intense significance and apparently no awareness that her outer kimono had slid down to reveal the illicit and unspeakably wonderful slope of her shoulder within her inner kimono; which was fine, because Kyuubei had awareness enough for both of them. 

“Really,” Tae had begun, her voice just as intense and only a little breathless, “marriage is no more than an excuse for men and women to screw each other silly. That’s all it was designed for, and that’s why I have no respect for couples who engage in sex before marriage; it’s disrespectful to the whole institution.”

Kyuubei, who had at the time been thinking about sex before marriage with a particularly focused and creative intensity, turned a vivid shade of scarlet and forbore to respond. 

“If a man wants to pound some girl into the mattress so badly, he should marry her; that’s what the honeymoon is for, and after that she can stop wearing her sluttiest underwear and he can start scratching his balls at the dinner table, and they can slowly grow to resent each other like normal married couples do. In the _proper_ way.” Tae thumped her fist into her palm, and looked at Kyuubei with an expression of fierce determination. “The _decent_ way,” she said. “Don’t you think, Kyuu-chan?”

It took Kyuubei several tries to get the words out. It would probably have taken fewer if it weren’t for the dishevelled nature of Tae’s obi, and the proximity of her bare ankle to Kyuubei’s on the couch, and the lingering echo of Tae’s voice declaring _pound some girl into the mattress_ that still reverberated in Kyuubei’s ears. “Definitely, Tae-chan.”

Tae took Kyuubei’s hand from where it still rested at her waist and clasped it between her own, gazing down with a look of bashful modesty. “Marriage was invented so men and women could finally get laid, and that should be respected. Tradition should be respected. It’s indecent for any of them to do it any other way.” 

“I couldn’t agree more, Tae-chan.” 

“ _Indecent_ ,” said Tae, her gaze still modestly lowered, “for a _man and woman_ to do it any other way.”

“Even thinking about it makes me ill, Tae-chan,” said Kyuubei, with complete honesty. 

“Doesn’t that happen every time you think of men, Kyuu-chan?”

“That’s very true, Tae-chan.”

At last Tae looked up again. The shade of pink that had spread its way across her was as elegantly understated as could ever be expected, but the look of determination was back in her eyes. Her fingers against Kyuubei’s palm caused a sensation a lot like someone performing open-heart surgery in the dark: the soft and vulnerable contents of Kyuubei’s chest in terrible, dangerous turmoil. “Kyuu-chan,” she said. “ _A man and a woman_ , Kyuu-chan.”

“I really don’t enjoy thinking about that, Tae-chan.”

“What I mean, Kyuu-chan, is – are _we_ a man and a woman?”

Fervently: “ _No_ , Tae-chan.”

“Well, then!” Tae said decisively, as though that settled things, although what things it settled Kyuubei wasn’t wholly sure; and after a moment Tae began to search Kyuubei’s face for something Kyuubei wasn’t wholly sure she’d find there, either – mostly because Kyuubei wasn’t at all sure what it was she was searching for. “Kyuu-chan,” she said. “ _Listen_ , Kyuu-chan. Sex before marriage is disgraceful for a man and woman. You and I _aren’t_ a man and woman.”

“I see,” Kyuubei said seriously, which was not entirely true – except, a moment later, it all of a sudden _became_ true: and Kyuubei was overcome by a blazing flush so fiercely strong it almost induced heatstroke on the spot. “Tae-chan, you – do you mean—”

Tae clapped her hands across her eyes with a small cry of distress. “Oh, don’t embarrass me, Kyuu-chan! Innocent girls like me are easily flustered; you have to understand how terribly difficult it is for me to even think about matters as dirty as men and women screwing each other’s brains out, let alone for me to _talk_ about them... But,” as she parted her fingers, and looked through, “—yes,” Tae had said, with a particularly intent glint to her eye, “I suspect that’s _exactly_ what I mean, Kyuu-chan.”

Kyuubei’s dreams had covered territory both exhaustive and exhausting throughout the years; and every last one of those dreams was already transcended in the very first moment that Tae’s inner kimono slid from her shoulder too. 

 

+++

 

Night never really falls in Yoshiwara. When Kyuubei returns alone some few evenings later, the main streets are as bright with the pulse of delirious club lighting, the lines of red lanterns strung back and forth above the street, the strobing, blaring neon advertisements, as though the district is stuck in an artificial, red-tinged daylight. 

And women, too: women on all sides. Behind the gilded bars of private premises, hands curled around the cage-fronts and blowing kisses through the gaps; gliding by at the centre of swathe upon swathe of wrapped and folded silk brocade, hairpins glinting in the lantern-light; women in doorways of bright noisy bars, their yukata shorter, brighter, their voices raised to heckle for the passing trade – _mighty fine sword you got there, mister, you wanna come inside and show me a move or two?_ And then outside the lantern-light, outside the shining gold and neon blare of the busy town streets, on the roofs and in the alleys and at the flickering shadows’ edges: women dressed the way Tsukuyo dresses, there and gone again, faces covered, silent flickers of shadow in the shadows. 

That Kyuubei has eyes for Tae alone is not, has never been, will never be in doubt: but it is _very_ hard to say no to women in yukata so short, and so enticingly low behind the neck, with lips so very red and their attention focused so appreciatively on Kyuubei – whose expression remains, with no effort, as grave as it has ever been, despite the blush burning up as recklessly as wildfire. Kyuubei has eyes for Tae alone; but the fact remains that plenty of women have eyes for Kyuubei.

“Kyuubei-san!”

A familiar voice – but it’s proving challenging to see beyond the fluttering beautiful swarm of women offering up their glossy sheaves of publicity materials. 

“ _Kyuubei-san_!” Louder, and nearer, and more insistent – and then Sarutobi lands with a thump at Kyuubei’s side, dropped straight from the rooftops, and the Yoshiwara crowds explode back away from her like the ripples of a stone thrown into a pond. She straightens, and casts a brief, assessing glance around her; and then she demands, “What’s going on?” 

“This young gentleman was going to follow me to the Blossoming Lotus, Edo’s number one pleasure bar,” says the woman whose pale and dainty fingers are linked around Kyuubei’s wrist, and Kyuubei’s blush stokes like a furnace. 

“Oh, _no_ ,” says the woman whose hand feels very much as though it rests gently in the small of Kyuubei’s back, “there must be some mistake; I believe this noble young warrior was offering his company to _me_ tonight—”

“Excuse me,” begins another woman, and then she too is spoken over, and Kyuubei looks gravely to Sarutobi in the silent hope that she will understand – as, all the while, the blush stokes and stokes like the blast heat of a rocketship leaving from the station. 

“Listen up, ladies,” says Sarutobi loudly, as her hand clamps down on Kyuubei’s elbow, “listen up – getting involved with Kyuubei-san is two for the price of one; there’s a gorilla comes attached, and none of you want to wrestle a monster that belongs behind the bars of a zoo just for your evening’s fee. Now come _on_ ,” she orders, and shoves a path for the two of them back out into the bustle of the street. 

Gold glitters on every side. Neon light skids and strobes dizzyingly across it. The night is well under way, down here in Yoshiwara, and far up in the darkness beyond the tight-packed curling, furling rooftops, there’s only a sliver of moonlight in the sky to be seen. 

Kyuubei takes a deep breath, and another deep breath, and then another one as well. “Were it not for your assistance, I am unsure whether I would have escaped with my wallet and virtue intact. You have my thanks, Sarutobi-san, and the thanks of the Yagyuu. Good evening, and goodb—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” says Sarutobi, oddly pleasant for a woman whose grip on the back of Kyuubei’s coat has grown quite so suddenly, ruthlessly strong. “If you’re concerned about your virtue, then whatever are you doing in Yoshiwara? Are you alone, Kyuubei-san?” 

Her grip isn’t letting up. All attempts to flee with dignity are going nowhere, as are all attempts to flee without dignity; and so the struggle ceases, and Kyuubei instead stands straight and tall – straight and taller – _slightly_ taller. “Alone but for my honour. And my sword. And my bushido, with which I am never alone. Such is the way of the samurai.”

Sarutobi disregards this noble solemnity, and nudges up her glasses. A certain slyness has crept into her voice. “The gorilla’s not here?” 

“Tae-chan is sleeping,” says Kyuubei. “In her room in the main house. In her yukata. The one with the small floral print. It’s... very pretty, Sarutobi-san.” 

This seems to satisfy Sarutobi, who turns smugly on her heel and pushes through the curtain of a nearby bar, waving Kyuubei inside after her, and so Kyuubei follows – into a hot and crowded room with cushions here, pillows there, women women women _everywhere_ – silk on the walls and stained carpet on the floor and round red paper lanterns strung from the ceiling... 

In the warmth of that louche red glow, an individual less alert than Kyuubei might have difficulty identifying the owner of any hand that brushed – so very, very gently – against their thigh. 

Not Kyuubei, though. 

A hard-toed boot smashes beneath the culprit’s chin; the hilt of a sword cracks down atop his skull; his kick-propelled flight ends against the wall, which he hits with a thud and slides down with a pitiful keening sound. “Don’t _touch_ me!” Kyuubei cries, and drives the sword passionately sheathed again with a clash of steel on steel. 

The women of the bar stir not a single painted eyelash. The clientele of the bar show not an iota of surprise. A slight masked woman slips through the front curtains after a moment and slings the unconscious offender outside by his leg, before disappearing again as silently as she came. The music piping through the speakers sings on and on, and the noise of the bar continues unabated. 

Eye closed, Kyuubei breathes deep – stands tall – regains a few traces of composure, regains a state of even tranquillity. Sarutobi is already sprawling in an attitude of unsurpassable relaxation atop a heap of satiny cushions against the wall; under her close surveillance, Kyuubei sinks down beside her. 

“You probably saved his life, Kyuubei-san.”

Kyuubei regards her with solemn gravity. “Do you really think so, Sarutobi-san?” 

“ _Oh_ , yes.” The observation is made in the careless manner of one who speaks with complete self-assurance. “Someone would have caught him at it, sooner or later – so he’s probably lying in some stinking gutter out there thanking whatever god he likes that it was you who did it, not Tsukki. Two, please—” to the silk-haired woman waiting for an order, “—though really, he’s probably still going to end the night with his balls popped open like chestnuts on a fire once she grinds them underneath her heel. Tsukki’s a very sadistic woman. No sense of mercy, nor of decency, nor fun, nor humour—But what _are_ you doing in Yoshiwara, anyway?” __  
  
The music and the noise and the lights, and the sweet lure of incense and lush fabric and lips as rosebud as any crabapple blossom in the springtime: Kyuubei’s thoughts are chaotic, awhirl, and to meet such a direct question with a lie would be not only a most un-samurai-like path of action but also, at this moment, more effort than it’s worth. 

The truth emerges. The sake arrives. The truth emerges at greater and more impassioned length, and its reception is warm beyond belief. 

Kyuubei’s cheeks, too, are warm beyond belief. 

“If I’d _known_ ,” says Sarutobi, her hand pressed intimately to Kyuubei’s shoulder, leaning in to speak up close, red-faced, “if I’d known, I’d have come prepared. To educate. You don’t need all these _cheap_ women,” with a grand, swooping gesture to encompass the whole of the bar – and, possibly, the whole of Yoshiwara – and quite probably, too, the whole of Edo and Japan itself. “Forget them, Kyuubei-san. You don’t need them. You need _me_.”

Kyuubei’s attention is rapt. Another cup of sake, poured by Sarutobi and pressed firmly into Kyuubei’s hand by Sarutobi, increases its overall level of raptness by several pleasant degrees. 

Sarutobi leans in further to explain, with a confidential bellow, that she’s left most of her belongings at Tsukki’s tonight, not that Tsukki knows about it, and if Kyuubei wants then the two of them could hop up on the rooftops right now and go to Tsukki’s and break in and retrieve her, Sacchan’s, belongings, and Kyuubei could see up close and personal just what manner of kit she, Sacchan, would advise for anyone considering life as a ninja on the go, a ninja with _needs_ , and _desires_ , and a reasonable monthly budget and a desire to make sound investment purchases and a frequent shoppers’ loyalty card for certain reputable Yoshiwara establishments—

“You are an honourable woman,” Kyuubei says, with a passion that speaks as its own thanks. “From this day forf – _forth_ , this day forth – from today, Sarutobi-san, this is – my clan will not speak ill ninja. Ill _of_ ninja. The Yagyuu will respect the way of the, of.”

“Ninja,” says Sarutobi. 

“ _Yes_ ,” says Kyuubei. Beyond Sarutobi, the room is a shimmering, wheeling blur of gold and glitter and paint and silk and billowing plumes of incense smoke; and when Sarutobi reels to her feet and declares her intent to leave, Kyuubei follows fervently at her side. 

 

+++

 

Over long years of growing accustomed to life with one eye, the issue of depth perception has ceased to present Kyuubei with much of a problem. Over one evening subject to the curiously agreeable influence of alcohol, however, the issue of depth perception has come lurching and staggering back to the fore. Sarutobi navigates the vertiginous rooftops with a speed and surety that bespeaks, possibly, the rigorous training of the ninja she has undergone – or, possibly, the frequency with which she drinks to intoxication and then takes this journey – or, possibly, both – and Kyuubei keeps up as best as gravity and momentum will allow. 

The rooftop on which Sarutobi declares them arrived is higher than the rest, and golder, too, with its edges swept up in elegant curlicues and its exterior radiant with light and open balconies. The hum of busy trade rises up from street level far below. 

“Follow me,” she commands, muffled by the lockpick clenched between her teeth, and swings precariously down from the guttering to force up the window of a darkened room. 

She finds the light switch just as Kyuubei clambers in behind her. The room is small and plain; its walls are bare, except for several kunai embedded in the approximate outline of a human head. It also reeks, overpoweringly, of tobacco. 

“Just keep it down,” orders Sarutobi, climbing onto the bed. “No one ever notices there’s someone in their house, so long as you keep quiet. It’s because they’re not expecting you to be there, you see—” she pushes up a ceiling slat, and carefully removes a large black case hidden away in the attic space, “—and you wouldn’t _believe_ how long you can stay in a place unnoticed, so long as no one’s expecting you to be there, and so long as your place of employment is aware you won’t be showing up for work that week and you have somewhere private to relieve yourself and whatever premises you’re infiltrating don’t own a dog that’s likely to sniff you out while preoccupied by engaging in the act of relieving yourself... My personal record is six days uninterrupted, but it would be _so_ much more if it weren’t for that creature of Gin-san’s— _There_ ,” Sarutobi says in satisfaction, the ceiling slat fitted back into place, and she climbs back down and sets the case on the floorboards before Kyuubei. 

Kyuubei gazes upon it with a sense of utmost solemnity. Then Sarutobi sets herself on the floorboards too, and the gaze of utmost solemnity travels to her instead; and then Sarutobi flips the case’s lid, and the gaze of utmost solemnity continues its onward travels. 

“Now look here, Kyuubei-san,” begins Sarutobi, confidentially – and Kyuubei does, and the night proceeds in a spirit of riotously eventful discovery until Tsukuyo herself arrives home. 

“Out,” she says. 

“Tsukki—”

“Out,” says Tsukuyo. She takes her pipe from her mouth and points it to the door. Her composure is admirably unruffled. “ _Out_ , Sarutobi. You too, Kyuubei. Wait – _Kyuubei_?”

Kyuubei takes a deep breath. “I am grateful for your hospitality this evening, Tsukuyo-san, unwittingly given though it was; Sarutobi-san has been most instructional on a range of topics. I offer you my sincerest apologies for our intrusion, and ask your forgiveness, while also understanding and accepting that mere apologies may not suffice, and offering you in that case my promise of seppuku on a date of your choosing. I am prepared to shoulder the burden of my own responsibility.” 

And this said, Kyuubei reclines with dignity and an abrupt thud on the floorboards of Tsukuyo’s bedroom. Through the unshaded window shine faint traces of Yoshiwara’s light. Patterns skip playfully across the plain ceiling, with a beauty so far beyond words that Kyuubei is quite sure it could never be articulated. 

Tsukuyo glances at Sarutobi. “You understand any of that?” she asks. 

“Something about pottery?” says Sarutobi. She scoops Kyuubei up to a sitting position and the room slants pleasantly sideways. “Something about not being able to handle your drink?” she says, more loudly, into Kyuubei’s ear. “At least you’re not as bad as Tsukki: though I’m not sure anyone’s as bad as Tsukki. At least you don’t turn into an abusive, disagreeable harpy when you drink. At least—”

Kyuubei’s eye slides peacefully closed. There comes a sound rather like Tsukuyo kicking an item of heavy plastic across the room. “What the hell is that? Sarutobi, what the hell is—and that! What the hell is _that_! That ain’t hygienic, you get that out my room! _You_ get out my room! I never even said you could come here!”

“I’m between assignments, you selfish bitch! I’ll move into a hotel before long, but until then it’s warm at yours, and are you really going to kick me out? Are you really going to force me to freeze to death alone in the uncaring streets of Edo?”

More thumping, more crashing. Blearily, Kyuubei looks: Tsukuyo is scooping various items of Sarutobi’s back into their case. “Yes,” she says. “ _Out_.” 

Her serene composure has gone up in ferocious, hot-faced flames. She slams closed the lid of Sarutobi’s case and hurls it from the open window. With no hesitation and a shriek of outrage, Sarutobi dives headfirst after it. 

Tsukuyo folds her arms, looking sternly down at Kyuubei. “You too,” she says – then hesitates, and offers her hand. Kyuubei takes it, and unfolds upwards with what feels like consummate grace. The room sways only a little. “But take care, alright? Don’t listen to that idiot. Get her to walk you home, or something.”

“You have a kind heart, Tsukuyo-san,” Kyuubei says solemnly, and means it with such overwhelming sincerity that it seems imperative to repeat it immediately, and then again, and once more – and then Tsukuyo jabs her pipe towards the door, and Kyuubei gets the message. 

 

+++

 

“What time did you leave this morning, Kyuu-chan?” Tae switches off the flame, and turns from the stove with her hands in oven gloves and a scalding tureen between them. “A shuttle passed overhead a little before dawn and woke me up, but you were already gone. Did you really leave for training so early?” 

Kyuubei takes a drink of water so hurried and tremendous that it gargles immediately back up. 

“Are you blushing? Kyuu-chan? Ah – Kyuu-chan, are you choking?”

Louder than is strictly dignified, Kyuubei blurts: “This smells delicious, Tae-chan, I can’t wait to,” still coughing, “try it, to _try_ it, I mean—” and, wielding the ladle with skill borne of long practice, flips the lid from the tureen and scoops up a dripping spoonful all in one swift motion. 

“You’ll burn yourself! Oh, Kyuu-chan, watch out—!”

It’s as hot as boiling and it tastes like it looks: as though it’s glowing and burning and radiating nuclear devastation all the way down. 

Kyuubei swallows, eye grimly closed. The substance settles in the stomach like the debris of atomic waste, toxic enough that its very existence should trigger city-wide evacuation. “Delicious, Tae-chan.”

“Ah – well, thank you, Kyuu-chan – but you _should_ have waited,” Tae says, reprovingly. “You could have hurt yourself, and then how would I feel? Knowing my own cooking was responsible for hurting you...!”

On the table between them, the contents of the tureen glistens and heaves with the uneven motion of inhalation, exhalation. There is something unnatural about its flickering ultraviolet glow. Like an eclipse, it is difficult to view straight on. 

Kyuubei dollops another ladleful into a bowl. “It looked too appetising, Tae-chan. I tried to wait, but I couldn’t hold myself back another moment.” 

Tae’s expression seems uncertain. Kyuubei takes another bite, swallows, expends immense effort on concealing the unearthly internal sensations it causes, and nods in solemn approval – and then at last Tae relaxes, and falls into a smile, and serves herself as well. “It’s a new recipe, actually! I thought I might try something different today, so it might not be up to my usual standards. But – you do like it, though, Kyuu-chan?”

Kyuubei speaks gravely around a mouthful of food. “I love it, Tae-chan.”

“You don’t think it needs a little more salt? Because the recipe said to add two twists, but that seemed excessive to me – except now I’m wondering if perhaps I should have followed the recipe the first time, and saved any changes for the next time I make it... Oh, I don’t know! What do you think?”

Kyuubei’s gut feels as though it has been wrenched free from its moorings, transported to a parallel universe, and thoroughly sandpapered before being returned, inside out. “I think it’s perfect, Tae-chan.”

Another spoonful. The unearthly ultraviolet glow of Tae’s cooking is nothing at all compared to the radiance of Tae’s smile. Another spoonful. It’s much too much to hope for, that the matter of Kyuubei’s nocturnal Yoshiwara adventures might have slid from the table entirely... but nevertheless, Kyuubei hopes.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

The hours of night and day are as skewed in Yoshiwara as they are in Kabukichou itself. Kyuubei returns some days later, and with late morning the streets are nearly empty. A few club callers, making a perfunctory effort for the few bleary-eyed patrons stumbling home; a few street sweepers, and a few women dressed up for no one at all, at this hour: carrying home their groceries, lugging bags of laundry. 

Finding the right street proves challenging. The main streets are for entertainment, and so are the side streets, and so are the back alleys and the passageways and the narrow winding lanes between close-crammed buildings; and in the maze of all those closed-up clubs and bars and brothels and parlours, next to nothing seems open for business at this hour. 

Up above the streets, a slight woman in a pink and purple kimono darts from roof to slanted roof. Her face is hidden but her eyes are sharp: keeping track, keeping watch. 

After almost an hour of fruitless wandering, Kyuubei stops in the middle of a damp-walled alleyway and peers up towards the rooftops. “Excuse me – Hyakka-san? Do you know the way to Seita-kun’s shop?” 

Framed between a television aerial and a chimney pot, far above Kyuubei’s head, the woman jumps to the next roof. Then she jumps again, down and nearer, to balance on the edge of a ramshackle second-storey balcony. “Seita-kun?” she says, suspiciously. 

“About this tall,” says Kyuubei, demonstrating with a judicious hand, “with brown hair... He’s a swift athlete. And a child. And a friend of Tsukuyo-san’s?”

“Seita-kun’s at temple school today,” says the woman. But then she jumps again, and lands two steps from Kyuubei with a kunai in her hand. “How do _you_ know the boss?” she demands. 

Her expression is mostly masked, but her eyes are ferocious all the same. It’s fortunate that the simplest answer is also, strictly speaking, the most accurate answer; and Kyuubei says, “We were once both members of a popular local idol group.” 

The Hyakka’s eyes narrow above her mask. “Diamond Perfume?” she says. “That was _you_?” 

Time has passed, but the memories remain. Solemnly, Kyuubei strikes a pose. 

“Ah! – it _is_ you, isn’t it! Kyuubei-san – I recognise you from the cover art!” Her voice is suddenly lively, her expression bright behind the mask. The kunai disappears back inside a pink and purple sleeve. “You mustn’t tell the boss, but we’ve all heard the bootlegs – we play them in the Hyakka barracks sometimes, when we’re coming off patrol. I’m a big fan, Kyuubei-san! You’re not far from Seita-kun’s, either; I don’t mind taking you there.” 

Kyuubei’s heartfelt thanks are waved carelessly away. 

“You’ll have to tell me all about it while we’re walking,” adds the Hyakka, and she beckons cheerfully after her, out of the alleyway gloom. “None of us have ever seen the boss dance, but that music video – _was_ it her, Kyuubei-san? Or a body double? Or – I mean, apparently that sort of thing does happen in the idol industry, sometimes, so we’ve never been sure—”

“All her,” Kyuubei confirms. 

“All her,” repeats the Hyakka, “I _knew_ it,” and lets out a sigh of great contentment. “I don’t suppose you’re planning a reunion, are you? A comeback tour, perhaps? You’d have all of Yoshiwara behind you, if you did – and if you need ideas for a theme, we’ve got _plenty_...”

 

+++

 

But before Seita’s shop, they find Tsukuyo herself: sitting alone outside a tea shop, and packing a fresh wad of tobacco into her pipe with the greatest of care. 

“Boss!” says the Hyakka at Kyuubei’s side, and snaps to attention. “Your – ah, I found your, your old—”

Tsukuyo looks up, flicking her lighter. “My old what?” 

“Your – my, uh – actually, I’m patrolling the eastern district,” blurts the Hyakka, “I should – I’ll just, ah,” and she turns and runs for it, vaults onto the canopy of a nearby pawn shop, and propels herself to the rooftops in a blur of pink and purple. 

It seems likely that much of Yoshiwara’s militia will soon know that their fearless leader does her own stunts, choreographs her own dances, and selects her own costumes; it seems likely that a mistake may have been made by imparting this information. 

“It’s good to see you, Tsukuyo-san,” Kyuubei says gravely. “It’s unfortunate you haven’t the time to talk; you seem very busy to me, but I’m sure we’ll meet again before—”

“No, I got the time.” Tsukuyo tucks her lighter away, and pulls in smoke as she pats the empty seat beside her. “How come you’re back again? Seems like lately you’re in Yoshiwara as much as you’re in Kabukichou.”

“Ah,” says Kyuubei, and, “Well,” says Kyuubei, and, “You see,” begins Kyuubei, and then falls quiet, and gazes out across the street at the closed shutters of the massage parlour on the other side with an expression of serious, contemplative thought. 

If there’s a single soul in Edo whose fondness for serious, contemplative thought rivals Kyuubei’s own, it’s Tsukuyo. She sinks into the silence as comfortably as though it were a warm bath on a cold evening; she is wholly – and inconveniently – content to wait as long as it takes. 

“You went to a shop some days ago,” Kyuubei manages, finally. The blush has returned, with the oppressive heat of an iron applied directly to the skin. “While I – accompanied you. I thought perhaps I... might return. To this shop. Alone.”

Tsukuyo exhales smoke, and considers. “The toy shop?”

“Yes,” says Kyuubei – then hesitates, and clarifies: “It’s not a children’s toy shop.”

“No, I got that.”

Kyuubei persists. “A type of toy shop for adults.”

“No, I got it.”

“Not board games and jigsaw puzzles, for example.”

“No – no, I got it. I know the shop, Kyuubei.” 

“A different style of toys.” 

“Kyuubei. _Kyuubei_.” 

“Toys children don’t play with, unless perhaps they happen to find one in a drawer of their parents’ bedside cabinet and mistake it for a beam sabre, and lose hours sparring with it against a sibling’s similarly improvised kitchen mop before at last one of the parents notices, mortified, and confiscates it back into the drawer—But that’s only an example,” says Kyuubei, “because most of the time, children don’t play with them. Because they’re for adults. Adults’ toys.”

Tsukuyo breathes smoke. “Got it,” she says. 

She doesn’t look at Kyuubei, which is something, at least – Tsukuyo always has been a kind woman. The possibility of bursting into flame and charring to cinders on the spot feels as likely as it feels appealing: which is to say, extremely so. 

“I think I know what you’re after, anyway,” Tsukuyo says, and snuffs her pipe. She tucks it away and at last looks at Kyuubei: a grave, knowing look. “Always the same, when people start getting hooked on Yoshiwara. You fallen for a woman, Kyuubei?”

It is entirely possible that Kyuubei’s blush alone could stoke the blazing furnaces of one of the city’s trans-galactic shuttles. Never has anyone asked quite so directly, never has an answer been demanded quite so openly – but no matter; the question has been asked, and any samurai who would shy away from the truth is no samurai at all: no matter how hard that truth might be, no matter how scaldingly red-faced that samurai might be. 

A deep breath. Kyuubei sits straight, and gravely says, “Yes.”

Inside the tea shop, there’s the distant, squalling hiss of boiling water. The morning sunshine falls fresh and clear on the gilded highlights of the massage parlour across the street. 

“No,” says Tsukuyo, “I mean, I know you’re – I meant a Yoshiwara woman. One of the courtesans.”

“I see,” Kyuubei says seriously. 

“It was a joke,” Tsukuyo says. She says it very seriously too. “I was trying to make a – I mean, I _know_ what woman you mean. Course I do. It’s Tae. Course it’s Tae.”

Kyuubei nods, more seriously still. “I understand.” 

“I was trying to make a joke,” says Tsukuyo. “Because obviously you ain’t fallen for a courtesan. Because – I mean, that was the joke. That you’d never—” 

“No, no, I understand—” 

“So I never meant you’d—”

“A very thoughtful joke, Tsukuyo-san—”

The serious, contemplative silence returns. It continues for considerably longer this time. Kyuubei is no longer the only one concentrating ferociously on the shutters of the massage parlour across the street, nor the only one whose face is hot enough it could probably be ruled illegal on the grounds of posing an arson hazard. 

“I ain’t much good at jokes,” Tsukuyo says eventually. 

“I understand,” Kyuubei says. “Me neither.” 

Tsukuyo clears her throat, and then she clears her throat again. She rises to her feet and very loudly says, “You wanna check out that shop, then?” 

The streets of Yoshiwara grow busier even as the two of them pass through. Doors are swinging open, canopies unfurling; music from a dozen clashing radio stations blares along the same street. Broad daylight mutes the glow of neon out in the main streets; but the alleyways are darker, narrower, and from their shadowy depths burst flashes and flickers of neon as bright and brash as night. 

The yellow silk across the shop’s doorway hangs in place. Inside, the elderly woman at the counter greets Tsukuyo with the same fondness as so many of Yoshiwara’s women greet her; they fall into conversation, and Kyuubei is left to browse alone. 

The experience of browsing alone grows overwhelming after a single glance to the left, a single glance to the right. Products designed for beauty, utility, realism... products decorated so thoroughly it becomes impossible to tell their function... Kyuubei prods experimentally at an item that, like any worthwhile training dummy, springs back upright with rubbery resilience – but its intended use seems unlikely to be that of a training dummy. Particularly specialised areas of training, perhaps. 

Tsukuyo’s lighter clicks before long. She comes over to Kyuubei’s side and says nothing, and the smell of her tobacco smoke joins the sweet incense cloud below the ceiling, and the browsing continues in companionable peace until, with the toe of a sandal, Kyuubei indicates the lowest shelf. 

“Sarutobi-san told me about this. She told me she owns one. She told me it’s worth the price tag, but—” 

“Thanks,” says Tsukuyo, already halfway to the door, “but I hear enough about Sarutobi’s perversions from Sarutobi, actually.”

“Tsukuyo-san!” 

Her footsteps slow. 

Kyuubei takes a deep breath, and turns determinedly towards her. “Do you think, Tsukuyo-san, you might... advise me?” 

Tsukuyo stops dead in the middle of the aisle. After a moment, she manages with brittle good cheer: “You don’t mean about _this_ stuff, obviously.” 

“I thought,” Kyuubei says, sombre as can be, “if I could speak to... a woman. Such as yourself. Then perhaps—” 

“You got Kuwa right there,” Tsukuyo says immediately, jabbing her thumb towards the woman at the counter. “That’s what she’s there for, ain’t she? Ask _her_!”

“A woman I know,” Kyuubei says, doggedly. “A woman whose opinion I trust. Who knows – about these things, and – about Tae-chan, and—”

“The thing is,” Tsukuyo says, scarlet-faced and very loud, “that – I _am_ a courtesan, but I got – personally, I got a very sound grasp of the theory, but... limited practical experience. So I dunno if I’d be much use. So you probably wanna ask some other woman. And not me. You definitely wanna ask some woman who’s not me.”

Kyuubei thinks hard for a moment. “When I spoke with Sarutobi-san—”

“— _except_ Sarutobi,” Tsukuyo says at once, “since she’s a madwoman and a liability, and the only reason she don’t get trouble from the Shinsengumi for all what she gets up to is the fact she’s in league with their chief. Look – there’s only one person’s gonna know everything you wanna know, ain’t there? So ask _her_.”

Kyuubei thinks hard again. If not Tsukuyo, and not Sarutobi, and if Kagura is too young to be concerned with such matters, and if Seita – his impressive salesmanship notwithstanding – is both too young and too male, and with Gintoki ruled out by the same criterion... 

Kyuubei begins, “Do you suppose Hinowa-san would—”

Tsukuyo’s pipe abruptly re-emerges. “Someone who knows _the most there is to know_ about Tae,” she says, the stem clamped between her teeth as she fumbles for her lighter. 

Kyuubei hesitates, loath to disagree. “But... I don’t think Shinpachi-kun would—”

“I mean Tae!” Tsukuyo bursts out, and seems as startled to hear it as Kyuubei. The wheel of her lighter is spinning without catching; she tries again and again and again, focusing ferociously hard on the jittery, sputtering flame and not on Kyuubei. “I mean Tae, Tae’s who I’m talking about. Shimura Tae, who knows everything there is to know about Tae. Ask Tae.” 

The idea is almost too bizarre to contemplate. Kyuubei frowns without seeing at a glittering, beaded tray of what probably aren’t bracelets, and tries to contemplate it anyway. 

“Look,” Tsukuyo begins again, after a moment – then hesitates, with an expression so pained it seems very much as though she didn’t intend to keep talking, and profoundly wishes she weren’t, “—Hinowa probably _would_ help out if you asked her, but – I mean, she ain’t gonna know what... about what Tae wants – or likes, or – _whatever_ ,” her light catches, and she stops immediately to drag in smoke with feverish speed, as scaldingly mortified as Kyuubei feels, “so ask _her_! Ask Tae! Don’t come asking me!”

“Ask... Tae-chan?” 

Tsukuyo is puffing with the frenzied urgency of a steam-driven skyship during take-off. She gives a thumbs-up, too busy smoking her way back to calm to speak. 

“Do you really think that would work, Tsukuyo-san?” 

Another thumbs-up. 

“But what if Tae-chan thinks it’s revolting?”

Tsukuyo’s eyebrows perform a complicated wriggle of incredulity at the idea that Tae could ever be revolted by anything involving Kyuubei. 

Kyuubei persists. “But what if Tae-chan doesn’t know either? About what she—”

Tsukuyo yanks her pipe away for exactly as long as it takes her to bark out: “She’s gonna know a damn sight better than Hinowa is!” 

Kyuubei accepts this with solemn trust. “But—”

“If you don’t stop talking about your sex life then I’m gonna start charging,” Tsukuyo says fervently, which is no real threat to someone with an inherited fortune the size of Kyuubei’s, but which makes Tsukuyo’s feelings very clear: Kyuubei hastens into silence. 

Outside again, in the bright cold morning that’s swiftly facing down the arrival of midday, it’s not long before Tsukuyo is once more as serenely calm as though she never wasn’t. The music is blaring, the lights pulsing; Kyuubei is lost in thought, and very little of it registers at all. 

“I got to get to work,” Tsukuyo says. “But good luck, or whatever. Never tell me how it goes or mention it to me again or anything, and I’m just gonna try and forget most of this happened – but good luck anyway.” 

Hand on sword, Kyuubei gives a small bow. “Thank you for your kindness, Tsukuyo-san. If it weren’t for you—”

“ _Don’t_ make it sound like I’m responsible!”

 

+++

 

But it seems as though it may never be the right time to bring it up. 

No – more than that: it _will_ never be the right time to bring it up. Kyuubei is entirely sure for the rest of the morning that it will never be the right time to bring it up; and throughout lunch, too, and for a significant portion of the afternoon as well – and then a lingering wooziness brought on by the combined effects of Tae’s cooking and Tae’s hand in Kyuubei’s begins to kick in, and the matter loses its significance in the face of other, more important matters: such as the distant, pulsing nebulas that had been visible deep within the black mass of whatever it was that Tae had served for lunch, and the question of their shared weekend plans, and the pleasantly sunny hike back up to the Yagyuu estate. 

A target dispatched. A target dispatched. A sound towards the dojo – Kyuubei whirls, ponytail flying like the crack of a whip – a target dispatched – ah, not a target: Tojo, now soaring beyond the dojo’s roof with a shriek of, “ _Young Master_ —!” growing ever more distant as he flies – a target dispatched. A target disp—

“There’s so much equipment in here!” Tae says. Her voice is muffled, albeit impressed, coming from the store cupboard inside the open doors of the dojo. “Does your family really use it all, Kyuu-chan?”

“Definitely, Tae-chan—” a target dispatched, “—since variety stops anyone from growing stale in their training,” and the bokutō cuts air with the slick hiss of speed, another target is promptly dispatched— 

“Really? Well, I wouldn’t want _you_ to grow stale in your training, Kyuu-chan.” 

Another training dummy loses its heart to the jab of a bokutō, and Kyuubei pivots in such a way that affords a glance of Tae: emerging from the dojo into the golden evening light, a wickedly hooked naginata in hand. 

She shades her eyes and smiles down so sweetly that it’s a deliberate distraction technique if Kyuubei’s ever seen one. The naginata executes a twirl, neat and deadly, spinning through her fingers. 

The training dummies instantly cease to matter. To look away from Tae for even a moment would be suicidal. Preparation, anticipation: Kyuubei’s stance lowers, grip loosens, breath raises. “Me neither, Tae-ch—” 

But she’s already there, striking mercilessly hard. Kyuubei parries, wood on wood – and that’s it, they’re off, the thump of sandals on dirt, the harsh breath of exertion, Kyuubei in practical blue hakama and Tae in her immaculate kimono, equally practical for being the only clothes she ever really fights in, outside her own dojo; and though Kyuubei’s faster and probably stronger, Tae’s reach is longer, and she’s not handicapped by having to look into her own face the way that Kyuubei is – ferocious, alight with the challenge, as brutal and as beautiful as though she’s both the villain and the princess of her very own fairy tale. 

“You know,” Kyuubei says, after a while – and vaults backwards onto the dojo’s veranda, fending off the naginata’s swing one-handed and groping about for a sword, a real sword, one of the swords hanging on the dojo’s inner walls, “speaking of equipment, Tae-chan—”

Tae’s next strike catapults the bokutō from Kyuubei’s hand – just as planned; the sword swings into play, and Tae’s eyes light up with vicious anticipation. “What is it, Kyuu-chan?”

“And variety,” Kyuubei continues, dodging back out into the balmy golden evening, Tae in hot pursuit, “such as of weapons equipment, or other types of equipment, maybe physical equipment—” 

“ _Young Master_ —!” 

Tojo, emerging bedraggled from the hedge and sprinting across the training ground – but Tae dispatches him without a backward glance. Her viciousness has softened into concern; the naginata swipes down, barely an inch from amputating Kyuubei’s arm at the shoulder. “Is everything okay, Kyuu-chan?” she asks, voice gentle. 

“Definitely, Tae-chan. I’m really just thinking about equipment,” Kyuubei explains, “and having a variety of it, which we – between us, which we don’t – or, rather, which _I_ don’t—”

“But your dojo has a whole _cupboard_ full of—oh,” says Tae, then, “ _Oh-h-h_ ,” says Tae, and tosses the naginata aside. “Is this about the sex shop, Kyuu-chan?”

Kyuubei barely pulls the strike in time. The steel blade bites hard into the ground. “The, ah—”

“The one Tsukuyo-san likes so much. Really, the sort of woman who thinks a sex shop is an appropriate place to take friends on a day out—” but Tae cuts herself off, sounding more fondly indulgent than critical. “Well, that’s just the Yoshiwara way, I suppose. Dango and dildos and a stroll in the park. She probably doesn’t know any better, and at least she always means well. Though – do you know, Kyuu-chan, I had a quick look through its front window, and I’ve never seen that many dicks standing up to attention in all my life – and this is coming from a woman who’s _met_ the Shinsengumi...” She presses her hand to her mouth instead of laughing, eyes alight with mischief. 

Speech is a feat entirely beyond Kyuubei’s physical capacities. Turning an increasingly incandescent shade of crimson is not, however. 

Tae wrenches the sword from the ground and offers it back, hilt first. “Would you like to go there, Kyuu-chan?”

With a heroic effort, Kyuubei’s voice returns. “Only – you, if _you_ – I only, that is, if _you_ would, Tae-chan – since you’re the one who’s, I mean, since _I’m_ the one with – or, that is, without... Since,” as the increasingly incandescent shade of crimson reaches effervescent new hues, “the lack of, of variety – in terms of equipment, that is, it’s all _my_ —”

“It’s all your nothing,” Tae says firmly. “Your equipment is perfectly satisfactory, Kyuu-chan, and I should hope that mine is too.”

“Yes,” Kyuubei says immediately. “ _Yes_. It – yes. It is, Tae-chan. Very much so. Completely, Tae-chan. In every way. More ways than that.” 

“Then we don’t have anything to worry about,” Tae says, looking only slightly pleased with herself: which is nowhere near as pleased with herself as she deserves to look, as far as Kyuubei’s concerned. “Why don’t we finish up here, Kyuu-chan? I’ll put dinner on once we get home; it’ll be ready by the time you’ve washed and changed, and then you can stay over this evening, and perhaps tomorrow morning we could take a walk into Yoshiwara. Would you like that, Kyuu-chan?”

The question is devastatingly earnest, and Kyuubei is accordingly devastated. “I’d like whatever makes you happy, Tae-chan.”

“I’m happy if you’re happy, Kyuu-chan,” says Tae, and takes Kyuubei’s hands between her own to hold them with the same warm sure grip with which she holds, and has always held, many other parts of Kyuubei: first among them the heart, second among them the soul, third among them a dead heat between the primary and secondary sexual organs. She says, “Would it make you happy to—”

From around the back of the dojo emerges Tojo, panting heavily and dripping wet – but without a thought, Tae seizes Kyuubei’s sword from its sheath and hurls it like a javelin, straight and true: the blade shears the top from his ponytail and the hilt clubs him in the face, and the rising wail of _Young Master—!_ is muffled by the sound of a broken nose, and Tojo reels from sight. 

Tae clasps Kyuubei’s hands again, sweet as ever. “Let’s try that again,” she says. “Would it make you happy to visit Tsukuyo-san’s sex shop with me?”

Solemnly: “It would make me very happy, Tae-chan.”

“Then it would make me very happy too, Kyuu-chan. Though – I really should have given you some warning before I took your sword, shouldn’t I? Next time I promise I’ll ask before using it.”

“There’s no need for that, Tae-chan. What’s mine is yours. You can use my sword whenever you like.”

“Still, I’m sorry for throwing it at that piece of worthless crap; you’ll probably have to set it on fire and cast it out to sea just to get the filth off.” 

“It’s no problem, Tae-chan. I don’t mind at all if you dirty my sword.”

“That’s very generous of you, Kyuu-chan.”

“It’s my privilege to share a sword with you, Tae-chan.”

“Spoken like a true samurai, Kyuu-chan,” says Tae. “Is this sword we’re talking about still steel, or have we moved on to metaphor?”

Kyuubei gives this the serious consideration it deserves. “I think a bit of both, Tae-chan.” 

“And when you said it would make you happy,” says Tae, “just to be sure we both understand each other, Kyuu-chan – was that the sort of _happy_ that comes when the first plum blossoms bloom in spring or you peel back the lid of a fresh new pot of Baagen-Dash or a dear friend comes by to say hello and share a meal, or was it more the sort of _happy_ that remains behind closed doors and generally requires a change of sheets afterwards?”

“Also a bit of both, Tae-chan.” Kyuubei considers, and revises. “A lot of both, Tae-chan.”

“I thought so,” says Tae. She casts her gaze demurely aside; she presses one hand demurely to her cheek, which is turning an equally demure shade of pink. “Then... it seems we’re of one mind on this, Kyuu-chan.”

The love in Kyuubei’s heart is always vast, always flowing, always full to capacity; but sometimes it surges up in a tremendous wave, just to ensure that Kyuubei’s awareness of it is never anything less than constant and absolute: and it does so right now, with a passion strong enough that even forcing words out past it is an effort. “Not... _just_ this, Tae-chan. We’re of one mind on eighty-nine percent of things.”

The demure gaze snaps back to Kyuubei: less demure, more wonderstruck. “Eighty-nine percent, Kyuu-chan?”

Kyuubei’s eye falls solemnly closed. “Maybe even ninety, Tae-chan.”

“What about,” begins Tae – then hesitates, deliberating, as though she hardly dares to hope. “What about... sweetened leek dumplings, Kyuu-chan?”

“Best served charred, Tae-chan.”

Tae takes a breath as sharp as though Kyuubei had seized her heart and squeezed it. Fiercely, she says, “And what about free flu vaccinations for the elderly, Kyuu-chan?” 

“More like free flu vaccinations for the weak, Tae-chan. Leave them on a mountain and let nature take its course.”

More fiercely still: “And people with body odour on public transport, Kyuu-chan?”

“If they don’t respect their bodies then they shouldn’t expect you to, either, Tae-chan. Kick them through the window.”

Tae presses her fist against her mouth. “Kyuu-chan,” she manages, after a moment, as overcome as though the name is something too wondrous to keep to herself – a feeling with which Kyuubei is intimately familiar, and which is wholly responsible for Kyuubei’s tendency to mumble Tae’s name not only while sleeping but also while paying inadequate attention during waking – in the middle of dull news reports, for instance, or formal Bakufu banquets, or engaged in unavoidable conversation with Tojo, “— _oh_ , Kyuu-chan... What if we were to visit Yoshiwara this evening, Kyuu-chan? After dinner? As soon as possible, Kyuu-chan?” 

“I’d like that very much, Tae-chan. And I love you,” says Kyuubei, no longer able to hold it back a moment more at any cost, as passionately overcome as Tae herself, “I love you very much, Tae-chan. More than anyone. More than anything. More than having exactly the right change for a grape-flavour Chuubert on a summer day. More than—” 

“ _Oh_ , Kyuu-chan,” says Tae, sentimental as can be, and Kyuubei pushes up to kiss her instead, because Tae has dipped her head to permit it and because Kyuubei’s feelings on the matter of loving her are far more easily summarised this way; and for a brief, chaste moment it feels as though a localised lightning storm has struck between the two of them and ricocheted directly into Kyuubei’s heart – a brief, chaste moment which is curtailed the instant Tae senses the possibility it might grow insufficiently chaste. 

“Let’s not tidy up,” Tae says, and seizes Kyuubei’s hand urgently in hers. “Let’s leave it for Tojo-san to do when he regains consciousness, and let’s go home. And I love you too, Kyuu-chan – I love you very much. In fact—” hardly a moment of pause, and then – suddenly, experimentally: “How would you feel about... oh, say – finding a great big crease right across the sleeve of your best kimono, Kyuu-chan? Just when you take it out to wear to the very first shrine visit of your little brother’s second-born child? And you know your brother’s wife will be there, and even though the chances are good that one of her young children will puke all down her back during the ceremony, you still want to ensure that you’re the best-dressed person there from the moment you step inside the gates? How would you feel... about _that_ , Kyuu-chan?” 

Kyuubei doesn’t hesitate. “Make sure you pass a roadworks site on your way to the shrine, Tae-chan. Then iron your sleeve flat with a steamroller. It saves time and effort, and offers a very firm press.”

“I love you very, _very_ much,” concludes Tae, and lets out a sigh of utter contentment. Her fingers curl through Kyuubei’s. “I really couldn’t ask for anything more, Kyuu-chan.”

“Me neither, Tae-chan,” says Kyuubei, entirely truthful.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Any comments would be appreciated! ♥ I'm in way, _way_ over my head with how much I care about these two, and since I haven't been able to stop writing Gintama fic for a while now, I've got about a million other fics on the way after this one. I'm also [over here on tumblr](http://www.uzumakiwonderland.tumblr.com/), where I'm generally just getting very passionate about Diamond Perfume.]


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